ORIGIN

The oven was acting up again. Perfectly functional for probably a few hundred years while he was on "vacation", and it was acting up. These staff of his—nonexistent as they were—and their tendency to pile up plates all over the damn place and leave the oven full so full of soot that it might actually start forming cinder blocks. Definitely not his own doing, though. Not at all.

Worse yet, Nedies couldn't bear the thought of cramming his arms into the back of the kiln, for there was no way he'd actually reach the back where the vents were, and what was the point if it wasn't spotless inside? The build-up would just happen again and the contemptible instrument would go back to charring everything to a crisp after a few good redfang roasts.

Ugh.

At least the stove still worked, and he could work on making some stock for later—some spare deer joints and hooves had wound up in the back of cold storage, and they ought see use, once all the gunk was scraped off them. Throw some roots and herbs in there to cut the savoriness, ground-up fat, and there: a nice, jellied mass for later. Just a matter of letting it solidify and cool off before he filled the jar he'd just gotten out with it—

Oh, a visitor! Fuzzy little thing with paws it was, nose and emerald-green peeking past the doorway.

Setting the clay dish down on one of few clear spaces on the counter, the centaur-like alien waved away any instinctive thought of how to best make a roast out of someone that struck him as an Ursa lesser and huffed. "Just two syllables. Nay-dees," he corrected, not all that politely nor rudely. More a bland indifference, distracted by his march back to the stove.

Nedies prodded at the cooling jelly inside the pot, barely glancing Forgraves's way. "To whom do I owe the pleasure?"

His bifocals nearly slipped off his nose, and he scrambled to catch them before they left an impression in his stock.

Forgraves. What a pleasant, gentlemanly sort of name!

A flat lid clattered to cover the jelly as Nedies turned to regard the fox at long last. Sunlit eyes peered down the bridge of a bat-like nose, scanning from puffy ears to dainty little feet and bushy tail. His left hand came up to solo thumb through his beard (mind the sharp edge on that knife-finger of yours, man!) and he let loose a "Hmm..."

Then a "Hum..."

Then a "Hmph!"

That came with a solid nod, because he'd had the most wonderful idea; an idea which was... "if you'd clean out the back of my damn oven, I'd be happy to give you some pointers—or cater," Nedies began to mutter, "if we can't figure out how to use those paws of yours..." That may prove to be an issue.

But, one thing at a time! This small gentleman just so happened to be the perfect size to reach the back of his crusty, terrible oven and—completely unaware of the very Hansel and Gretel-like nature of such a trade offer—who was Nedies to not jump at such an opportunity? Perhaps the puffy lad would love it so much that he'd come back and be a permanent cleaner. Those damn tumbleweeds they called janitors were ineffective as anything, apparently.

Nedies plodded to the sink, withdrawing a comically oversized and soapy sponge. On his way to the oven, he picked up a bent and rusty spatula "to chip off the hard bits with, should you accept such a noble undertaking." (This was explained with no less than fifty milligrams of deadpan irony, except he did respect and appreciate no minimum wage workers!)

Both waited on the edge of the ash-filled oven.

"I really can't take any offense there." Nedies waved two hands dismissively by way of a placating gesture, but the fox was already pawing off his glasses and jumping into the oven. Perfect.

With an attitude like that, the little guy would be done in no time. And while he was busy with that—

Nebulous amounts of gunk gave that first crunch!, and it was accompanied by the sound of a finger flinching to touch a scalding hot pan. Nedies swore he heard a sizzle as the pad grazed the surface he immediately wanted to kick across the floor, and he backpedaled into the island at the heart of the kitchen.

But, saving face, he managed to only hiss quietly in pain and start dipping the burnt digit in the somewhat dirty sink water. (Desperate times call for desperate measures, and he didn't need his hands clean right this instant.)

"Oh, a few thousand cycles of cooking'll do that to any implement." The centaur glared down his nose, though Forgraves likely couldn't see. He grumbled, "I'm lucky anything here's still intact now that all the labor force seems to have flown the coop or, well—" A dry laugh. "... y'know, died."

He made a theremin noise as a substitute for outright saying "anyways", huffing.

"Is this friend of yours anyone important? Have any taste whatsoever?" If he was going to commit to teaching, it'd better be for more than just primal things like putting meat on fire and eating it with the soot included.

Now, wasn't that a damn surprise?

Nedies released a genuinely awed gasp. "That poor guy's still going?" Sure, it'd be foolish to let him die for his talents, but… "even if he doesn't show up, he deserves at least a little compensation for his craft." Of a gentle, loving sort; not hurled insults and demands.

The Palace's head chef might be a bit of an ass, but he wasn't twisted and sickened by Chaos and violence. It was his fellow craftsman now at stake here. Hell, he was tempted to come along now. (But, Forgraves couldn't know just yet how quickly he was breaking through this old cook's hardass exterior.) "Soon as you're done, we're planning one Hell of a meal."

Actually…

He dropped a sack of short-grain rice on the countertop, clearing it with a clatter of cutlery and pots. "Chop-chop, Forgraves! You're honorary sous chef once you're out of the dungeon." Then, he clip-clopped away into the cold storage beneath his kitchen.